*I Have a Right to Love*
Lately, Emily has been wondering why her family doesn’t understand her—even though she’s never been happier. Instead of being happy for her, they whisper behind her back and gossip to mutual friends.
Fifty-four and still striking, Emily works for a large company where she’s respected. She’s been there for years, mentors younger colleagues, and has a kind heart.
Life hasn’t always been kind. Her first marriage was a disaster. Her mother had warned her:
“Listen to me, love. Don’t marry Dave. Look at his father—never home, always disappearing for days. And when he does come back, he shouts at his wife in front of the whole neighbourhood. Like father, like son.”
“Mum, that’s just gossip,” Emily argued. “Even if there’s some truth, Dave isn’t like that. We’re happy together.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to marry. Don’t rush.”
“I don’t *have* time,” Emily muttered, turning to the window.
Her mother gasped. “You’re not—”
“Yes, Mum. That’s why we’re getting married.”
Her mother sighed. “I should’ve known—you’ve been craving pickles. But why didn’t you *think*? You’re tying yourself down so young!”
“Enough. What’s done is done. Start planning the wedding.”
“Where will you live?”
“Here, with you. You’re the one who says his father’s unreliable.”
Her mother’s face fell.
The wedding was small—both families lived paycheck to paycheck. Emily had a son, Thomas, and took maternity leave. Dave clashed with his mother-in-law immediately.
“Why does your mum wake up so early on weekends?” he grumbled.
“She’s making breakfast so we don’t starve. Thomas keeps us up all night—she’s trying to help.”
“My dad’s drunk and shouting at home. Here, your mum clatters about at dawn, and the baby won’t sleep. What kind of life is this?”
Dave started coming home late. “Where are you?” Emily asked.
“Working. Sometimes grabbing a pint with the lads.”
After three years, she found out he was cheating—with a co-worker nine years older. Emily kicked him out and filed for divorce.
Her mother sighed. “I warned you.”
“Enough. I don’t need lectures.”
For ten years, Emily focused on Thomas and her job. Then her colleague Claire invited her to a birthday dinner. Among the crowd, a man introduced himself.
“William.” He gave a small bow and asked her to dance. “You must be Claire’s colleague. I’d remember seeing you before.”
They talked all evening. William was twelve years older, never married—quiet, well-read, charming. He walked her home.
They started dating. At thirty-four, Emily had never been happier. One evening, William handed her flowers. “Marry me. I’ve no experience being a husband, but I’d like to try.”
She introduced him to her mother and Thomas.
“Well?” she asked after he left.
“Polite, steady—older, but that’s no bad thing. Owns his flat, has a car. Seems solid.”
Married life with William was worlds apart from her first marriage. At thirty-eight, she was pregnant again.
“What do we do?” she asked. “Thomas is grown!”
“We have the baby,” William laughed. “I’d like to leave my mark on the world—a son or daughter will do.”
Their son James was born. William adored him—bathing, feeding, even night feeds so Emily could rest.
Years passed. Thomas married, and Emily became a grandmother—though her daughter-in-law Charlotte kept her at arm’s length.
“Don’t fret,” William comforted her. “As long as Thomas is happy.”
Then, on holiday, William collapsed. “Just the heat,” he insisted—but back home, it happened again. At the hospital, the doctor pulled Emily aside.
“It’s a brain tumour. Inoperable.”
Her world shattered.
William deteriorated. She buried him and rebuilt her life with James. At fifty-four, walking through the park one autumn evening, she bumped into a silver-haired man.
“Sorry—I was miles away.”
“No harm done,” he smiled. “I’m Oliver.”
They talked for hours. A widower of six years, he worked in city planning. Soon, they were inseparable.
When Oliver proposed, Emily told Thomas.
“Do what makes you happy,” he said—until Charlotte’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“At *your* age? What kind of love is fifty-four?”
Emily kept her cool. “You’re thirty. When you’re my age, you’ll understand. I’ve a right to love.”
“Fine. But don’t expect me at the registry office.”
Thomas came alone, bouquet in hand. Charlotte’s words stung—but Emily couldn’t care less. She was happy.
